


This, And My Heart Beside

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Old Married Couple, Slice of Life, but ambiguous as to whether they're officially married or just capital M married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: Aziraphale looks up from his book and glances over to see Crowley listing in the doorway, squinting and frowning at the hazy gray mist settled over the back garden. His hair is an absolute rat's nest, the once-suave black satin pajamas are wrinkled all over, and there are pillow creases maring the side of his face. Aziraphale holds back a fond grin. It's still a bit of a thrill to be allowed to see Crowley so rumpled, so openly uncool, for all it's been his privilege for several years now.A day-in-the-highly-domestic-life of a couple of retired ineffables.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 181
Collections: Promptposal





	This, And My Heart Beside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asideofourown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asideofourown/gifts).



> A fluffy little gift for my prom date, [asideofourown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asideofourown/pseuds/asideofourown). Part of the GO Events server prom gift exchange. I took the prompt "Very Married" to hopefully a satisfyingly fluffy degree. Hope you enjoy it, my lovely prom date!
> 
> Thanks to [IsleofSolitude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude) and [Waywarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder) for organizing such a fun gift exchange, and all my love to beta extraordinaire [onlysmallwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings/pseuds/onlysmallwings).

#### Morning

There's always a change in the air, a certain frisson, when Crowley enters a space.

Aziraphale looks up from his book and glances over to see Crowley listing in the doorway, squinting and frowning at the hazy gray mist settled over the back garden. His hair is an absolute rat's nest, the once-suave black satin pajamas are wrinkled all over, and there are pillow creases maring the side of his face. Aziraphale holds back a fond grin. It's still a bit of a thrill to be allowed to see Crowley so rumpled, so openly uncool, for all it's been his privilege for several years now.

"Good morning, dearest," he says, pitching his voice low and soft to match the quiet atmosphere and Crowley's obviously tentative grasp on consciousness.

Crowley's head swivels first, but once he spots Aziraphale's seat on the back porch, he pivots his whole body to face him and scowls.

"Woke up and you were gone," he grumbles in a tone perilously close to a whinge.

"Darling, you've been asleep for three days," Aziraphale says mildly. "I wanted to stretch my legs."

Crowley grunts in acknowledgement and then sways in place, eyeballing the free cushion next to Aziraphale on the rattan lounge but making no move to come closer.

"Come over here," Aziraphale suggests. "Keep me company." He pats the miraculously weatherproof cushion next to his hip and rests his opposite elbow on the armrest to add his lap to the inventory of available seating.

With a put-upon sigh, Crowley crosses the distance with dragging steps and slowly collapses onto the cushions. His head, unsurprisingly, crash lands softly in Aziraphale's lap, the rest of his body pulled up in a tight coil against the morning chill with his back to the garden.

Aziraphale tuts and drags down the tartan fleece throw he brought out from the back of the lounge so he can tuck it around Crowley's sleep-warm corporation.

"Angel," Crowley protests halfheartedly, but he's already falling back asleep, forehead mashed against Aziraphale's belly.

"Hush, this one's warmer than that silly designer thing you bought," Aziraphale tuts, picking back up his book and using Crowley's shoulder as an impromptu armrest. With his other hand he begins idly teasing through and smoothing out the demon's tangled hair.

"S'stylish," Crowley slurs, sinking deeper into the cushion and Aziraphale's lap.

Aziraphale hums, noncommittal, and gets back to his book.

  


#### Noon

For lunch, they try the new-new cafe that recently replaced the bistro that had itself replaced the old-new cafe that had been struggling to make do when they first moved to the village several years ago. Combined with the slightly awkward location just too far off the main road, neither of the previous establishments had had much to recommend them in either quality of food or service. Aziraphale is interested to see if the new owners might be worthy of the blessing of an angel's frequent visitation.

He makes a beeline for the outdoor table that is part in shade, part in sun and quickly claims the shaded seat. Crowley slinks after and gives him a smirk as he settles into the free seat. Aziraphale busies himself with the menu so he can pretend not to notice, but he does catch Crowley tipping his face up into the warmth of the noonday sunshine when he glances up. He gives his own little smirk of satisfaction.

Aziraphale skims the menu to get a sense for the overall fare. "Oh, darling, they have kedgeree here," he says, perking up and angling his menu so Crowley can see. "You haven't had that in an age."

Crowley, for his part, is still thoroughly lounging with his menu obtrusively open and un-perused on the table, much to the passing server's obvious chagrin. He does tilt his eyebrows up in silent interest, though.

"And Scotch eggs—or soft-boiled with soldier toasties if you're in the mood for something simple. Oh, and an entire espresso _menu_ ," Aziraphale goes on enthusiastically. "Shall I read it out for you?"

"Nah, whatever they recommend," Crowley says easily and then tips his chin down so he can eyeball the menu from a distance. "The soft-boiled eggs, I think. I'm not very hungry. You can have some of my soldiers for your benedict sauce."

Aziraphale wiggles in his seat and beams happily. Now that Crowley's sorted, he can properly turn his attention to the list of egg benedicts neatly printed in a separate space on the menu, framed with little curlicues and done in a twee font. "I'm not sure which style to choose," he confides gleefully. "They have quite the selection."

"Take your time, angel," Crowley purrs, equally basking in the sunshine and the increasingly annoyed glances the server is flicking between their table and the growing queue at the front door.

Once they've placed their orders, Crowley draws his long limbs back in so he can lean over the table and prop his chin up on one hand. Under the table, his knee knocks companionably against Aziraphale's.

"What's for after, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks up at him over the rim of his teacup—a properly dainty thing made of real china—and then gives him a mildly reproving look. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll see how we're feeling once we're done with our meals."

Crowley grins at him, sharp and delighted. "Thought I saw ‘a fine selection of pastries from Maude's Marvels' listed under desserts. Think they'll have ol' Maudie's cream puffs? The black forest cake?"

"I may not get dessert," Aziraphale says loftily and takes a prim sip of tea, which is very well done. The likelihood of this place becoming a regular spot is rapidly improving.

"Angel," Crowley drawls in a low rumble, "we're meant to be testing them, aren't we? Not a proper test if you don't get dessert."

"We know what Maudie's pastries taste like," Aziraphale protests even as images of the bakery's finest begin parading in his mind's eye like so many sugarplums.

"We don't know what this place's definition of ‘fine selection' is, though, do we?" Crowley wheedles, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into his espresso cup. "What if all they have are the brownie bites and gingersnaps?"

Azirphale can't help the reflexive moue he makes at that possibility. Truly, some of Maude's weakest offerings.

"Well... I suppose that's true," he concedes.

"Exactly," Crowley says with smirking satisfaction. "We'll get you a sampler."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Hearing the list should suffice, you wily tempter. One to split will be more than enough."

"Nope. At least two. I don't intend on sharing," Crowley threatens cheerfully.

In the end, Crowley somehow convinces him to order a third pastry. They share all three.

  


#### Afternoon

After lunch they go on a leisurely constitutional, as Aziraphale calls it, or "a bloody walk" as Crowley insists, along the modest high street of the village. Aziraphale, in predictable fashion, pauses outside the combination antiques and bookshop and peers at the titles in the window display.

Crowley stops alongside him and only gently rolls his eyes behind the safety of his sunglasses. Any word spoken would only encourage the bastard, after all. Instead, he folds his arms, cants his hips, and casts a jaded eye over the nearby storefronts and people out and about to see if any mischief potential jumps out at him.

"Hmm," Aziraphale finally says with the bubbling little tone drop that signals he's decided to indulge in something he finds just the slightest bit naughty.

"Aren't you already more than halfway through your ‘comprehensive reorganization,' angel?" Crowley drawls without stopping his idle perusal of the street. "Won't new books set you back to the start?"

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale says with a fond swat at his folded arms. "I only intend to browse. That one in the red leather binding I recognize from that time they held book club at Smith cottage. They had just the loveliest collection of Milnes. I doubt any would have made it here from the estate sale—poor Dorothy—but it never hurts to check."

"Of course not," Crowley deadpans.

Aziraphale grants him a bitchy purse of his lips but doesn't outright call him out. "Will you be coming in?" he asks instead, correctly polite.

"Nah, think I spotted that berk Taylor going into Fashion Lady's store. Figure I'll go play Wind up the Bigot," he says with a serpent's grin.

"Do try not to get us run out of town, Crowley," Aziraphale returns mildly, but he casts a fretful eye toward Sarah's boutique.

Sarah Darling makes a point of catering to a wide variety of body shapes and gender presentations, which is a point of grumbling contention with a small contingent of the town. No one who holds any position of power, thank goodness—or, at least, not since shortly after Aziraphale and Crowley settled on the outskirts of the village. Still, there is the odd confrontation from time to time.

Crowley cackles. "I'd like to see them try."

Aziraphale gives his elbow a fond squeeze and then an extra loving pat to boot. "Well, be safe. And at least _try_ not to traumatize poor Sarah when you're about your business."

"I'm sixty percent of _her_ business. She loves me," Crowley scoffs and starts striding across the street with only a scornful glance for the rental vehicle that's forced to make a hard brake as a result.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes skyward, seeking patience, and flicks a distracted blessing for the tourists now looking a bit shellshocked in their vehicle, before turning into the store.

Three hours later, Aziraphale steps back out onto the pavement and finds Crowley leaning insouciantly next to a "no loitering" placard on the Tesco Express shopfront a few metres up the street, positively fellating a strawberry ice lolly to the obvious mingled outrage and delight of a couple passing him on the street.

"Darling," Aziraphale says reprovingly.

Crowley grins at him. "Angel!" he crows as he peels himself from the wall and ambles over, tossing the half-eaten treat into a nearby bin along the way. "How many is it? Twenty? Thirty?" he asks, though he doesn't hesitate to reach out and relive Aziraphale of half the canvas bags holding his prizes.

"All valuable additions to my collection," Aziraphale says, because a more specific answer is too embarrassing to voice out loud.

Crowley gives an amused, agreeable hum as they fall into step with one another. He even holds out his right elbow for Aziraphale to take. Aziraphale tucks his hand in with no small amount of trepidation, figuring it either for bait or at the very least to ensure they present a bigger obstacle to be navigated by passersby on the pavement.

"You're going to have to start all over with your reorganization, aren't you," Crowley purrs just as Aziraphale gets himself snugged into Crowley's side to his satisfaction.

Aziraphale feels his face flush hot, but he tips his chin up defiantly. "If you must know… yes." And then, because sometimes it's easiest to redirect the target of Crowley's gloating rather than trying to snub it head on, he asks, "And how did your encounter at Boutique of Lissfield go? I didn't hear any sirens, at least."

Crowley deflates a bit. "Oh, Taylor got one look at me and scarpered," he gripes.

Aziraphale gives his bicep a commiserating squeeze. "Your reputation precedes you, it seems."

"Yeah…" He perks up. "Fashion Lady just got in the new season's looks, though. Got a few bags in the Bentley already," he admits with a crooked little smile thrown Aziraphale's way.

"Well, you'll just have to put on a private little fashion show for me later, then," Aziraphale says with an equally fond smile.

Crowley half groans, half laughs. "I swear, it's like you don't even hear yourself half the time."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "I know exactly what I said. We can get out some bubbly and put on a nice record and I'll admire your corporation for the beautiful work of art you've made it to be."

Crowley's cheeks are blazing, but he's fighting back a grin. "Yeah, all right. Whatever you like, angel."

  


#### Evening

Crowley circles the underperforming Monstera plant dragged to the middle of the solarium with an obvious sneer curling his lip. The plant, for its part, shivers only slightly under the scrutiny.

"Well…" he drawls after several long minutes of oppressive silence. The leaf nearest him flinches and he bares his teeth in a rictus smile before continuing in a soft, measured voice: "What do you have to say for yourself, hmm? The angel put you on a PIP. We've checked the soil acidity, added another layer of mulch, put you in a better spot for indirect light. And what do I still see?"

He flicks a finger at the small sliver of yellowing on the edge of one of the broad, stylishly perforated leaves. The plant begins trembling in earnest now. Its siblings tucked in their various homes around the room begin to vibrate in terrified sympathy.

"Crowley," Aziraphale admonishes from the doorway, and Crowley ruthlessly suppresses a flinch of his own. He'd been caught up, and the angel can literally walk on air when he chooses to exert himself.

He channels the surge of surprised adrenaline into a dramatic spin, waving one arm up and around to present the angel to the plants like dazzling magician's reveal.

"Oh, and who arrives at the eleventh hour but your angelic savior," he croons to the plants and then fixes a yellow-eyed gimlet stare at the Monstera. "Show him the proper respect," he hisses.

The plants, in unison, straighten and stretch, leaves straining for an extra sheen of healthy gloss in the fading light trickling in through the glass walls. The Monstera, in a last-ditch effort, attempts to move one of its handsomer leaves to hide its yellowing disgrace.

Aziraphale, for his part, purses his lips and sighs once through his nose. "My dear, you weren't hosting a PIP review without me, were you?" he asks mildly.

Crowley grins at him. "Course not, angel. Just checking in on progresssss." He whips his head around to the Monstera. "Recount your sssssins," he advises.

The Monstera tremblingly offers itself up to the angel's mercy, proffering the yellowed leaf that kicked the process off like a martyr facing judgment.

Aziraphale favors Crowley with a blistering look as he paces into the room, hands clasped loosely behind his back, but doesn't say anything out loud that might undermine his authority. Instead, Aziraphale examines the Monstera like he would a sculpture or performance piece in a modern art museum: a little squint of confusion around the eyes but otherwise attempting to hold an expression that says he's reserving judgment.

Crowley orbits the angel and the plant like a fiery satellite, occasionally pausing for an impromptu inspection of the rest of the little menagerie of plants.

Finally, Aziraphale gives out a little hum, and Crowley swings back to stand at his left shoulder. "What's your judgment, angel?" he murmurs.

Aziraphale tips his head to the side. "The yellowing hasn't spread," he points out, "which is an astounding accomplishment that shouldn't go unremarked." He says the last approvingly toward the Monstera, which literally vibrates at the praise. "However, I don't see any new growth," he continues carefully, "which was another condition of the agreed-upon Plant Improvement Plan."

Crowley draws in a hissing breath, ready to blast his justified ire, when Aziraphale places a discreet hand on his wrist.

"You did administer the fertilizer solution two nights ago, as discussed? Only, it wouldn't be fair to hold the poor dear to standards if it wasn't properly equipped to meet them." Aziraphale's eyes are wide and eyebrows supercilious as he regards Crowley expectantly.

Crowley frowns and thinks back. "No, I did not," he concedes. It had been a long day in the garden topped off with a surprise picnic and star gazing; he'd stumbled straight to bed after, Aziraphale tutting and fussing the whole way.

"Well, then I think the only thing to do is delay the review," Aziraphale says, turning a pleased smile back on the Monstera and nodding decisively.

Crowley isn't wearing his sunglasses, so he can't roll his eyes. The plants might mistake it for derision instead of fondness, and he won't undermine the angel in front of them.

"Fair's fair," Crowley agrees and then casts a beady look at the Monstera, which is almost drooping in relief. "I'll administer it tomorrow. There's been enough excitement tonight. Don't want to burn the roots."

"You are the expert, dearest," Aziraphale says warmly and steps closer so their arms brush. "You know, I was doing a bit of research of my own, to try and keep up, you see. Did you know, there are studies suggesting playing classical music can improve growth?" He turns to look at Crowley eagerly. "I thought, when you're not around to, er, inspire them, we could play something for them. A bit of Vivalidi, perhaps? Or would that be too on the nose? What do you think?"

Crowley stares blankly back at him for a long moment, brain snagging and circling and doubling back on literally every element of the energetic little speech. He knows it's taking his brain too long to reboot because now Aziraphale's expression is drawing tight around the eyes and mouth. In lieu of words, he grasps the angel by the wrist and hauls him out of the solarium and further into the cottage.

Aziraphale splutters behind him, protesting being "handled so rudely," but Crowley doesn't stop until they reach the hallway to their bedroom where he's sure they're out of earshot. Then, he turns and backs Aziraphale into the wall, resting a forearm on either side of the angel's head and pressing their foreheads together with a hissing sigh.

Aziraphale's hands flutter momentarily before settling on Crowley's hips. "Darling?" he murmurs, seeming to realize he's perhaps got the wrong end of the stick.

"A PIP," Crowley growls, pausing to press a soft, fierce kiss to the little upturn on the end of Aziraphale's nose, "is a bit of corporate legal ass-covering. You're not meant to actually improve when you're put on one." He presses his narrow, boney chest to Aziraphale's broader, plush one and drags his lips across the angel's cheekbone to press them to the pulse beating softly against the thin skin of his temple. "You're meant to sign away your credibility to make it harder to sue for wrongful termination," he insists, nuzzling into the froth of white hair just above Aziraphale's ear.

"Ah," Aziraphale says, "I see." And he must, because instead of protesting he simply wraps his arms around Crowley's waist and tucks them more firmly together, letting the wall take their combined weight. "I take it you like the music idea?"

What Crowley likes is the unprovoked interest, the careful attention, the willingness to come up alongside him and offer unwavering if sometimes moderately bewildered support instead of knee-jerk judgment and remonstrations.

What Crowley says is, "Yeah, s'a good idea. If you're not careful, you're going to spoil them rotten."

Aziraphale scoffs even as he presses his cheek more solidly against Crowley's. "Nonsense. They want so badly to please you. I'm just trying to help them put their best, er, roots forward, if you'll forgive the phrasing."

Crowley doesn't know what to say to that, so he cheats and leans back to press a soft, chaste kiss to Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale hums into it and then draws away, but only so he can return the gesture with his own, in kind.

  


#### Night

It's time for bed, Crowley decides, which isn't something so much signaled by the sun or moon's relative position to the earth but by some mysterious inner working of his corporation that decides it would very much like to be horizontal and unconscious now, thank you.

"Going to get ready to turn in," he announces before swinging his feet off Aziraphale's lap and levering himself up off the sofa.

Aziraphale gives a vaguely affirmative hum without looking up from his book, which Crowley takes to mean he absolutely hasn't heard him.

With a roll of his eyes, Crowley saunters toward the bedroom to begin preparations.

First, he draws open the drawers of Aziraphale's ridiculously overstuffed dresser and selects a fresh set of night clothes. The blue-and-gray pinstripe set with the white velvet piped trim looks nice and cozy. He lays them out on Aziraphale's side of the bed, running a hand appreciatively over the soft material before stooping to root around for where the angel's house slippers have ended up under the bed so he can line them back up neatly.

Once the bed's turned down and Aziraphale's pillows have been arranged for proper reclining, he moseys back out of the bedroom to perform a circuit of the house. The dozen or so books Aziraphale is currently reading are hunted down and rescued from their abandonment on various side tables, chair cushions, countertops, sideboards, and even a pantry shelf. He stacks them neatly on the bedside table and then ferries the mugs crusted with the dregs of tea and cocoa to the kitchen to replace them with fresh offerings. After another moment's consideration, he also sets up one of the standing dinner trays by the edge of the bed and summons a new pack of biscuits and a small charcuterie board.

Looking over the room, he nods in satisfaction, snaps himself clean and into the slinky satin nightgown he's been favoring lately and turns to retrieve the angel.

"Come on," he says when he returns to the living room. When that doesn't elicit a response, he nudges Aziraphale's foot with his own bare, slightly scaly one. "Up you get. Time for all good little angels to be abed."

Aziraphale blinks up at him, befuddled, then takes in his nightgown, and finally squints suspiciously at the pitch-black windows.

"Oh…" he says eventually, setting his book down on the cushion beside him. "I suppose it is getting rather late. Yes, of course, let's get you to bed, my dear."

He stands and gives Crowley's arm a fond squeeze as he passes by to head back toward the bedroom. Crowley watches him go with mild exasperation and then scoops up the forgotten book from the cushion and trails after.

The book gets tossed (gently) onto the angel's side of the bed. Crowley tosses himself after onto his own side and burrows down into the indulgently high thread-count sheets and draws the gray, feather-down duvet up around his ears until only the tuft of his fiery hair sticks out. He waits, curled and comfortable, for Aziraphale to finish getting ready in the en suite, listening to the rush of water and rustle of cloth as he washes up and changes.

Finally, he feels a wash of cooler air as the duvet is lifted, and the bed dips with Aziraphale's added weight. There's a bit of jostling as Aziraphale wriggles into place and leans upright against his mound of pillows, but soon enough he's settled.

"Thank you for all this, dear," Aziraphale murmurs, running light fingers through the fringe of Crowley's hair.

Crowley grumbles something indistinct, already halfway to sleep with how cozy their bed is, and shimmies closer so he can press his whole face into Aziraphale's hip and fling a proprietary arm and leg over the angel's legs.

Aziraphale fusses with the duvet so it's tucked to his satisfaction around Crowley's shoulders and over his own lap before snapping the room to darkness save for the dim bedside lamp.

"Good night, sleep tight, dear heart," Aziraphale teases as he holds his book one handed so he can drape his free arm over Crowley's back.

"Mnnyeh," Crowley protests sleepily, but dutifully squeezes Aziraphale tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emily Dickinson's poem "It's all I have to bring today—"


End file.
